s*t*a*r*s 8 - pt 137

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Jo lies on her stomach on the bed, she’s reading the files over again, having thought the night had been a bust. Amy had come back to town and Jo had set up a meeting. In a very lavish hotel room, they had never been in a hotel room together before. Jo had really wanted to treat Amy to her “real date” rule, but before the main course had been served in the swanky restaurant downstairs, they had made it to their room, barely. Now, Amy was in the shower, singing.

She scratches her head. She desperately needs to find this killer before they strike again. She feels connected for some reason to this case; something about it vibrates in her soul. What was left of her soul at least.

The killer had been hop scotching around for almost three years. Different cities, different types of people – that wasn’t true, they all had one thing in common. The women were all lesbians. The men all had lesbian sisters. Now he was striking couples. One partner was short haired the other blonde with long hair. All in LA, all over the last six months.

The killer had no cycle. No pattern.

Then there is Emma. Jo rests her head on the pillow and listens to Amy turning off the shower. Emma couldn’t have a vision of anything at the crime scenes. It’s as if her power are turned off completely when it came to this care. It infuriates her, and Jo.

She rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling, tracing the edges of the room with her eyes, letting her thoughts drift. Her gaze drifts to nowhere in particular, and then to Amy who is just coming into the room. She closes her eyes for a moment, burning that image into her memory. It bleeds into the other memories she has of Amy, she is perfectly happy to be making new ones.

Amy is as still equally naked as Jo, her blonde hair dark with water. She gets on the bed and pushes Jo’s hair from her face. “You have to stop thinking about this thing,” says Amy.


Jo moves back to her stomach, throwing the file on the floor next to the other ones, feeling the tension building in her shoulder, in her mind and in her soul. She takes long deep breaths, but nothing eases her mind. She closes her eyes to the pictures and images that are in front of her, the blood, and the death.

“Merde,” mutters Jo. Her blue eyes flash with anger because she can’t grasp the pattern.

“Jo, you need to rest, how many hours have you slept in the last week?” asks Amy. Her hand drifts with ease up Jo’s back, fingertips follow the trail of the bumps of her spine to the base of Jo’s neck. Jo sighs. The sweet touch of your best friend, your lover, and your kindred. How she had missed that touch and now she relished it.

“10, maybe less. You know I don’t need sleep.” Jo states, rubbing her face as she blinks. She stares at the mirage of files that cover the floor. She sees something that she hasn’t seen before. She reaches down and grabs one of the crime scene photos. She looks at it as if for the first time. She reaches over and grabs a similar one. This time from the first round of murders.

“Amy, strangulation is a crime of passion, why is it that there are no fibers, or finger marks on their necks?” Jo asked. Amy shrugs, she plops down next to Jo, they are shoulder to shoulder and she takes the picture, studying it. A bruised neck but no finger marks or belt or rope make. Amy bites her lower lips.

“Looks like a wide band of some sort strangled them.”

Jo nods. Someone had to have thought of this already, right? Retreading ground is something that comes with the territory, it was part of the game, and sometimes it leads to something new.

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